"Why, hello, Kid, how goes it?" M'Ginnis's heavy hand descended on his shrinking shoulder and next moment he was out on the sidewalk where Soapy lounged, a smouldering cigarette pendent from his thin, pallid lips as usual. And Soapy's eyes, so bright between their narrowed, puffy lids, so old-seeming in the youthful oval of his pale face, were like his cigarette, in that they smouldered also.
"Holy smoke!" exclaimed M'Ginnis, surveying Spike up and down in mock amazement, "this ain't you, Kid—no, this sure ain't you. Looks all t' th' company-promoter, don't he, Soapy?"
"'S' right, Kid, 's' right!" nodded the pallid youth, his smouldering eyes always turning toward M'Ginnis.
"Say, now, Bud, quit your kiddin'!" said Spike petulantly.
"But, Gee whiz!" exclaimed M'Ginnis, tightening his grasp, "you sure are some class, Kid, in that stiff collar an' sporty tie. How's the stock market? Are ye a bull or a bear?"
"Ah, cut it out, Bud!" cried the lad, writhing.
"Right-o, Kid, right-o!" said M'Ginnis, loosing his hold. "You're comin' over t' O'Rourke's t'night, of course?"
"Why, no, Bud—I can't."
"Oh, t' hell wid that—I got you all fixed up to go ten rounds wid Young Alf, th' East Side Wonder—"
"What?" exclaimed Spike, his eyes bright and eager, "you got me a match wi' Young Alf? Say, Bud—you ain't stringing me, are ye?"